Theresa's waiting game

Impossible as it may be to get into the mind of a drug addict, counselors, counselor wanna-bes and well-meaning friends do it all the time.

Theresa Taylor, the Vision House director, believed Melissa Mackey was sincere during her good days at the Vision House. She believed Melissa's testimony in front of hundreds of clergymen at a conference was heartfelt. Theresa thought the real Melissa wanted desperately to remain clean, but her own mind was her worst enemy.

Theresa figured part of Melissa's mind felt empty without drugs. A need was not being met that Melissa just couldn't let go of. Her physical addiction was gone. But Melissa couldn't get over the mental void. Theresa said she thought crack and heroin were the hardest drugs to let go over the long term.

The idea that drug addiction is simply a lack of willpower has been disputed. Most scientists consider addiction a brain disease in which drug chemicals alter the brain's structure.

Karen Daugherty, the Vision House manager, didn't care one way or another in the days following the relapse. Melissa had hurt her for the last time. Karen felt her life would be much better without Melissa in it.

From that moment on, Karen took a more businesslike attitude.

But not all of the Vision House women were like that. Over the next few months, a few more residents came and went, which Theresa said was a good thing. Some of the more abrasive women left the program, not necessarily because of relapses, but they were ready to try life on their own after staying the required six months.

About the time Melissa left, Erin Smith moved in. Unlike Melissa and even Katie Ruppel, the squeaky-voiced gal who had bonded with Melissa, Erin was able to flip a switch almost immediately upon entering the Vision House.

The Vision House was Erin's first serious try at rehab. She had come from Jefferson County, near St. Louis, where she used and manufactured methamphetamine until she lost her home and her four children. At one point, she almost died of a blood infection. Erin was caught in a traffic stop in Tennessee while on a run to purchase the pills needed to make meth. To avoid prison, she accepted assignment at the Vision House.

Erin, unlike Melissa and Katie, seemed to take a more serious approach. Or at least there was less doubt with her. Her demeanor seemed driven by purpose rather than desperation. She had a different personality altogether.

She was only required by law to stay at the Vision House for two months, but she bought into change right away.

She changed her entire mind. She changed her behavior. Her friends. Her desire. She bought completely into the Vision House program. Over the next several months, Erin would become the model Vision House citizen. Not a problem in sight.

Katie, meanwhile, went through a rough stretch.

She was sorely disappointed in her good friend Melissa, who she described as "very, very angry and distraught" when Melissa came back to the Vision House to visit during her relapse. At one point, Melissa arrived at the Vision House demanding Karen give her some cash so she could pay for some drugs. A man in the parking lot was holding Melissa's purse hostage and would not give it over until he got his drug money, Karen said. Karen called the police, but nothing came of the incident.

Katie learned from Melissa's relapse when she had a relapse of her own. Before she got caught, Katie admitted to Karen that she had used drugs. Theresa sent her off to complete another round of short-term rehab at the FCC. Katie was welcomed back to the Vision House because she admitted her relapse, Theresa said.

Katie came back stronger and more dedicated than ever. With Erin as one of the Vision House leaders, and with a group of more-dedicated women, the Vision House cruised on for weeks and months. Theresa was seeing her vision come to life; she watched women make meaningful strides every day.

But things at home were slipping. Theresa's husband, David, wasn't making much in commissions, and the bills were starting to pile up. When Theresa first started working on the Vision House project, she and David worked full time at a magnet business in Cape Girardeau. David was a manager; Theresa made a decent hourly wage. But David took another job as a salesman and told Theresa she should pursue her Vision House calling and quit working.

Theresa's teenage son wasn't doing so well, either. In the months past, she had suspected he was smoking pot. She forced him to take a drug test, and he failed. That, perhaps more than anything she experienced in the first year of the Vision House, broke her heart. She tried different methods to get him to stop, but nothing seemed to work. Theresa's son had a bright personality, good looks and good sense of humor. But he was slipping through Theresa's fingers.

Things didn't get much better at Christmastime.

It was Dec. 23, and Theresa was in the Christmas decoration aisle of Hobby Lobby, looking for a small present for her secret pal at church. Her cell phone rang. It was her Jefferson City bureaucrat friend.

She had made friends with the bureaucrat while she was trying to fill out the application in May. That spring was frustrating and hectic as Theresa put her street-savvy intelligence to the test, trying to make sense of government requirements and lingo. She had barely met the filing deadline, slipping in the door of the UPS store as it was getting ready to close.

Months later, Theresa had gotten a call from the bureaucrat, saying her application was No. 2 on the list of projects to be funded by the state. All indications were that the Vision House would get enough funding to open a facility for Vision House women who completed the program and wanted to get their children back. It would also provide a salary to both Theresa, the Vision House director, and Karen, the 24/7 manager.

Theresa and the bureaucrat had been playing phone tag. He called, left a message. She called, returning the message.

Finally, the call came and Theresa took it, surrounded by strangers and Christmas ornaments. Theresa only remembered the first few words of the conversation.

"Hi, Theresa," the bureaucrat said. "I know you're excited, but ..."

Theresa barely heard another word. Her heart crashed into her stomach. She could hardly maintain her composure. The man told her none of the projects was funded by the state. The same tough economy that hindered Theresa's husband's sales also ruined her hopes of getting paid a salary.

"That's OK, I understand," she told the man.

For a month, she kept the phone call a secret from Karen and the others at the Vision House. She couldn't think of a good way to break the news to them. Eventually Karen overheard a conversation and figured it out. Through tears, Theresa apologized to her friend.

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Theresa Taylor always found comfort in her faith. When it came to the Vision House, she believed everything would somehow work out. Two days after finding out the Vision House wouldn't get its grant funding, Theresa found herself in front of the church singing a Christmas duet, "What Child is This?"

That Sunday was the first time she had sung in front of a crowd in years. Her barky voice, the result of years of smoking cigarettes and inhaling meth, was gone.

She hadn't smoked a cigarette since her surgery.

March 1, 2006, the Vision House's one-year anniversary, came and went with little fanfare. Theresa had wanted to do something special for the one-year birthday, but it would have to wait. Too many things were going on. Instead, the celebration was scheduled for April 24.

In the meantime, the women kept meeting. Drama was part of every Vision House woman's past, and the idea of the Vision House was to lose the drama. Every woman there brought with them their own personal tragedy. For some women, like Melissa, the craziness followed them through the Vision House doors. Others, through meetings and Bible devotions, were able to stave off the antagonists and temptations that had surrounded them for so long. Several women were able to find peace they had never experienced before.

On April 24, the Vision House broke out the balloons, the picnic tables, a sound system and the barbecue grill to celebrate a year of recovery.

An 18-year-old girl, the one who had admitted to having sex with up to 11 men a day for drugs, was carrying red carnations. She was going to graduate.

The other Vision House women mingled with friends and family.

"I'm trying to do it without the drugs," one of them said above the noise of the chitchat and the men checking the microphones.

Theresa was busy scurrying about, making sure everyone had what they needed.

It was truly a different place than a year ago.

The federal courthouse across the street, which four seasons earlier was only a skeleton, was now dressed with bricks and landscaping.

Inside the Vision House, almost all of the apartment units had been remodeled. Only one was left to finish, which would become Theresa's office and a Vision House common space for meetings.

But the people were different, too.

The woman named Erin, who had lost her four children because of methamphetamine, had already taken some training in Jefferson City to help other drug-addicted women. Once she completes her two-year stay, she wants to open a new Vision House in Wentzville, Mo. Erin never thought the Vision House could help her. She intended to put in her law-required two months and leave.

Katie, who admitted she had relapsed and was allowed back into the program, was now one of the most consistent women there. She was also pregnant with Karen's granddaughter. Katie had established a relationship with the same man who had had sex with Melissa many months ago. Katie and Karen's son had dated off and on for three years between times of relapse, and their relationship turned more serious at the Vision House. Now both clean, they face a future with an unplanned child.

There was a girl named Suzanne who moved on from the Vision House after a meth addiction. She resumed her career as a surgeon's nurse. She had tried rehab three times before. She left more than six months clean.

Another woman, Debbie, felt comfortable enough to move into her own apartment, but she plans to continue meeting with the women. She said the stability and support helped her. She left after six months. She's looking for a future with her daughter.

Midway into the one-year party, Karen sheepishly accepted a birthday gift from Theresa. Karen would celebrate her 50th birthday soon. She had learned over the past year how to let things go, how to keep a distance, how to be tough and how to still maintain healthy relationships with the women who stayed there.

And then there was Melissa, noticeably absent. She wasn't far away, however. She had made another circle into Cape Girardeau, checking into the Family Counseling Center on Sprigg Street, a few blocks away from the celebration, Karen said.

Several others avoided Melissa's plight, and that, Theresa said, was worth more than any salary that could be paid. Over the first year, the Vision House had more successes than failures. Eighty-three percent of the women who went through the program stayed clean while at the Vision House.

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In May, Theresa again filled out a grant application and sent it to Jefferson City.

The 18-year-old graduate relapsed, and her father asked the Vision House to let her back in. Theresa said yes, but only after the girl completed a round of short-term rehab.

Melissa one day called Karen from the FCC. Karen said Melissa apologized and told her she learned a lot from the Vision House. Days later, word trickled back to the Vision House that Melissa had relapsed again. Melissa's mother in St. Louis said in a telephone interview that her daughter "isn't doing so well." Madonna Mackey was trying to decide whether to let her daughter come back and live with her. "Everybody talks about tough love, and I understand that on a logical level," she said. "But it's tough." She said the Vision House was good for her daughter, that Melissa does much better in structured environments.

Theresa, who had the vision, would start getting paid up to $500 per month. Desperate, she approached the Vision House board for some financial help. She only wanted the pay if the Vision House had the money left over after expenses. The board obliged. Sometimes Theresa would get the full $500, sometimes it was closer to $300. It's still not enough to keep the creditors from calling her at home. Theresa is afraid she'll soon lose her house.

Her son is up to his old antics. She told him he would have to move out if he wasn't going to abide by certain rules. She said he has decided to move out. She says she's watching a train wreck and doesn't know how to stop it.

Theresa also traveled to Jefferson City. The bureaucrat had asked her to come up and talk to some officials with the the Missouri Housing Trust Fund.

"The first time I was ever clean or sober in my life, it took me six months to even think clearly," she told the men in suits. "Now they're saying they should get clean in 15 to 21 days? You're just barely detoxing in that amount of time."

As a result of the message, one woman wrote a check for $500. Another wrote a check for $1,000.

Now Theresa is playing the waiting game again. Waiting to see how far her son might fall. Waiting to see if lawmakers at Jefferson City believe her Vision is worth a $300,000 grant. Waiting to see if she'll get to keep her house.

Waiting to see which women will turn their lives around.

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Melissa Mackey sits on a floral couch in the living room of the apartment. The walls are white, the carpet clean and the sun beams in from the large window with a view of the nearby pool. Paintings lay on the floor, waiting for someone to hang them.

There are no cigarettes around, only M&Ms to keep her occupied.

She's a different woman than a year ago. Her hair is partly black. She wears an AC/DC shirt that reads "Dirty Deeds." Her makeup is painted on thick. She arrived only hours ago. She hasn't slept, really slept, in days.

In her first interview since she had relapsed more than a year ago, her core view has not changed. She knows she is an addict. She knows she needs to change. But she can't. At least she doesn't think she can. She doesn't know where the person stops and the illness begins.

But everything else is different. The clean apartment isn't a fresh start. It's little more than a place to sleep, a place to shower. It's her mother's and grandmother's place. She doesn't know how long she'll be welcome.

Melissa's daughter, Olivia, is outside splashing in the apartment swimming pool, playing with her father. Melissa hadn't seen her daughter in 10 days, but all she can think about now is getting some rest.

Melissa, it turned out, had consumed alcohol on her first trip to St. Louis while at the Vision House, she now admits, at her sister's wedding on May 21, eighty-one days after entering the Vision House. No one knew it. She had poured some alcohol in her Diet Coke. She returned to the Vision House sober, with a feeling that she could control herself.

In return trips to St. Louis, she reacquainted herself with an "old friend." He didn't use, she said, but he drank. And so did she. Her destination of crack always started on the road of alcohol. First a drink, then another drink. A drunken stupor that's not quite enough. Only crack could finish the job, only crack could give the rising action a suitable climax. It was a story repeated hundreds of times over the last several years.

She doesn't remember much about those days. She's been under crack's control pretty much ever since.

She was arrested once for stealing her mother's car. That's how she ended up back at the FCC. Then she stayed clean for a few days and stole her mother's car again. She says her mother did the right thing in calling the police. When "functional," Melissa stays at her mother's house, takes Olivia to school. She even had a job for a few days.

She has nothing but praise for the Vision House. She calls it an "awesome program. They have a lot of resources and it's really good if you're willing to help yourself."

But her voice is neither cheery nor charming like it was a year ago. She talks slowly, still recovering from a binge that ended at 6 a.m. It's now 4 p.m. on a Friday.

She says her lifestyle isn't fair to her daughter. She knows Olivia wakes up many mornings and wonders where her mommy went. Her mommy was actually in downtown St. Louis where "you do what you have to do" for drugs. Melissa cries at her own sad story and she talks as if she is defeated, as if there is nothing more to be done.

"I want to stop, I do," she says. "So bad. I wish everything was just over ... everything. But do I want to stop today? I don't know. If someone came to take me out of state today to get clean, I would. Probably, I would do that."

As for her immediate plans, she said she wants to go back to bed.

"When I get up, I'll have to feel out my mom, see if she'll let me stay.

"If not, I guess I'll just go back downtown."

About this series

After 17 years of drug addiction and living in the streets, a Cape Girardeau County woman named Theresa Taylor had a "vision." That vision was to provide a faith-based, long-term transitional living facility for homeless and addicted women.

This series begins two years after the "vision" and on the opening day of the Vision House. It follows the progress of the facility as well as some of the women who tried the program. The reporter visited the Vision House more than 30 times over the past year, conducting scores of interviews. While some of the scenes were reported firsthand by the reporter, most of the story was re-created through interviews of the various sources mentioned in the story. When events could not be verified by other participating parties, those events have been attributed to the sources who gave the information.